Carefully, and trying to stifle their gagging, they inched their way upward to daylight. The dozer was a hundred yards away, crisscrossing. When it turned away from them, they scampered out of the pile, and, staying low, moved until the dozer turned and they hid again. In the distance, another sanitation truck was heading in their general direction.
Though speed was everything, they could not afford to get in a hurry. It was about 1:30. The first bed check was at 6:30.
Dodging the bulldozer and the sanitation trucks, they eventually made it out of the landfill and into a gorgeous field of snowy white cotton with stalks chest-high. Once there they began running, a slow measured jog that took them off the prison land and onto someone else’s property. Step Three was working; they were technically out of prison, though far from free.
If most prisons could be jailbroken, then why were most escapees caught within forty-eight hours? Nevin and Sammy had talked about it for hours. In general terms, they knew what to expect within the prison. Outside of it, they had almost no idea what they would encounter. One fact was certain: they could only run so far. Jeeps, three-wheelers, helicopters, and bloodhounds would soon be on their trail.
After two hours they found a muddy pond and collapsed into it. They peeled out of their stinking prison clothes and changed into jeans and shirts they had stolen and hidden months earlier. They ate cheese sandwiches and drank canned water. They rolled their dirty clothes into tight wads, wrapped them with baling wire, tied them to a rock, and left them in the pond. In their paper sacks, they had food, water, one pistol, and some cash.
According to Sammy’s brother, Marlin, the nearest country store was on Highway 32, about five miles from the western boundary of the prison. They found it around 4:00 p.m. and called Marlin from the pay phone. He left Memphis immediately, for a rendezvous that in his opinion would probably never happen. According to the plan, he would drive to an infamous honky-tonk called Big Bear’s on the north side of Clarksdale, an hour from the prison. He would have a beer, watch the door, and try to convince himself that his older brother was about to walk in.
It was 4:30. Two hours from bed check and alarms, assuming, of course, they had not already been seen. They left the store and walked two miles out of sight. They hid under a tree and watched for traffic. Most of the people who lived in the area were black, so Sammy became the hitchhiker. With the pistol. They heard a car approach and he jumped onto the shoulder and stuck out a thumb. The driver was white and never slowed down. The next vehicle was an old pickup driven by an elderly black gentleman, and he never slowed down. They waited fifteen minutes; it was not a busy highway. In the distance they saw a late-model sedan and decided Nevin should play the role. He stuck out a thumb, managed to look harmless, and the driver took the bait. He was a fortyish white man with a friendly smile, said he was a fertilizer salesman. Nevin said his car had broken down a few miles back. As they approached the same store, Nevin pulled out his pistol and told the guy to turn around. He turned pale and said he had a wife and three kids. Great, said Nevin, and you’ll see them later tonight if you just do as you’re told. “What’s your first name?”
“Scott.”
“Nice, Scott. Just do what I say and nobody gets hurt, okay?”
“Yes sir.”
They picked up Sammy and headed west on Highway 32. Nevin said over his shoulder, “Say, Eddie, this here is Scott, our new chauffeur. Please tell him we’re good boys who don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“That’s right, Scott. Just a couple of Boy Scouts.”
Scott was unable to speak.
“How much gas?” Nevin asked.
“Half a tank.”
“Turn here.”
Nevin had memorized maps and knew every county road in the area. They zigzagged in a general northern direction until they left the town of Tutwiler. Nevin pointed to a farm road and said, “Turn here.” A hundred yards down the road, he made Scott stop and change seats. Nevin gave the pistol to Sammy in the rear seat who kept the barrel touching the back of Scott’s neck. On a deserted farm road between two vast cotton fields, Nevin stopped the car and said, “Get out.”